


lay me down

by kakashihatake123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6931681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/pseuds/kakashihatake123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have…” Sansa began, looking away. The golden light of the candle on the stand highlighted the blush on her face bright and red as the skin of an apple. She looked at her feet, hair cascading into her face like a crimson wave. “I have nightmares.” Jon nodded, understanding her plight so completely that for a moment he was too taken aback to respond. “I’m afraid that he will come back.” She said, her voice a low whisper.</p>
<p>“He will not.” Said Jon. His voice was firm enough to surprise her, blue eyes flicking up to meet his, so familiar that Jon could almost taste the salty, sweet air of Winterfell. Her eyes flicked quickly towards Longclaw, the abandoned sword nestled among the furs. “Sansa, nobody will take you from me. I won’t let them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	lay me down

Lay Me Down

Jon awoke suddenly, having been roused by the sound of falling footsteps just outside his door. His eyes burned with fatigue that clawed at every inch of his body like soreness. His body was begging him to lie back down and pull his furs around him and let the howl of the wind against the ice lull him back to sleep. But his mind was at once awake, still tormented by the memories of his brother’s attack. In his nightmares he could still feel the knives pierce his belly. In his nightmares he could still feel the cold.   
  
Jon Snow moved silently, his fingers blind as they reached for Longclaw, the sword resting against the wooden frame of his bed where he had set it the previous night. Slowly drew the blade from its scabbard watching as the moonlight that slanted in through the closed shutters ran down the blade like silver blood.  
  
“Who goes there?” Jon called. His voice was clear, if not gruff from his lack of sleep. There came no response but a series of rustling fabric. In the darkness he could see a shadow shifting through the empty room, the creak of the wooden floorboards alerting him to where the figure stood. “Who goes there?” he repeated, louder now, more forceful.  
  
“Jon…”  
  
He dropped his sword to the bed with a clatter, the thin mattress creaking loudly under the weight of the wrought iron blade. He fumbled for the set of long stemmed matches he kept on the night table; striking the edge and watching it flicker to life.  
  
Sansa had sunk to her knees before the door. The furs Jon had gifted her lay about her shoulders, wrapped tight as an embrace, the brooch at her throat shining silver in the moonlight. The blanket that had once been on her bed was spread over the floor in the design of a makeshift bed, though Jon was sure the wooden floors caused nothing but discomfort.  
  
“What are you…” he asked. Her face loomed in the darkness, pale and gaunt and flickering with the same fatigue he felt.  
  
Sansa looked uncomfortable, her eyes shining. Jon wondered if she had planned to rouse herself and sneak away before he had risen come morning. He wondered if she had done this before. From the set of her furs he knew she had. “I just…” she said. “I have…” she looked away. The golden light of the candle on his stand highlighted the blush on her face bright and red as the skin of an apple. She looked at her feet, hair cascading into her face like a crimson wave. “I have nightmares.” Jon nodded, understanding her plight so completely that for a moment he was too taken aback to respond. “I’m afraid that he will come back.” She said, her voice a low whisper.  
  
“He will not.” Said Jon. His voice was firm enough to surprise her, blue eyes flicking up to meet his, so familiar that Jon could almost taste the salty, sweet air of Winterfell. Her eyes flicked quickly towards Longclaw, the abandoned sword nestled among the furs. “Sansa, nobody will take you from me. I won’t let them.”

“Can I…” she began tentatively. “Stay in here tonight? I won’t make any noise.”  
  
Jon looked at her, surprised. Half of him wanted to scream at her that she need not even ask. Half of him wanted to take her hand and embrace her so tightly that for even just a moment she might forget the horrors she had endured at the hands of Lannisters, of Baelish, of Boltons.  
  
He swallowed the lump in his throat but found his dry throat could not form the words to convey what he felt. So he simply leaned back into the feather bed, parting the edge of the furs so there was space enough for another to enter. Sansa looked up at him, thinking that an empty featherbed had never looked so inviting.  
  
A pale hand reached up to pull free the laces of her cloak before letting it fall silently to the floor beside her boots. Jon feared she might be apprehensive of him. He was afraid she might think he would hurt her, as Ramsay Bolton had. But she did not pause as she crossed the room toward him, the featherbed dipping and shifting with the weight of an additional person.

Sansa was warm beside him, her body pressed against his. She turned to face him, so close that her brow brushed his gently as she shifted to adjust the gown that was tangled beneath her. Her feet were icy cold against his, toes touching his bare ankles from where they had wiggled beneath the legs of his trousers.  
  
Leaning forward to extinguish the candle Jon found Sansa shifted with him, her body pressed flush against his, molded in such a way as to follow every move he made. Her face was hidden, pressed to the space just between his shoulder and neck, causing gooseflesh to dance across his skin with every exhale of warm breath. He was tentative as he wrapped his arms about her. Beneath his touch he could feel her go still as a statue but as he made to pull back Jon felt her hand press down upon his shoulders, holding him solidly in place.   
  
“No.” he heard her whisper, so faint he was not even sure he had heard her. “Don’t.” she said, a bit louder, hot breath against his neck as she let out a sigh. “I like being like this. I like when you…hold me.”  
  
He whispered, “I do too.” Jon could feel her arms coil around him, wrapping about his middle as she inched closer until her chest was to his, her stomach against his, her legs tangled between his. It was almost too tight to be comfortable. _Almost_.  
  
Jon smoothed down her hair, his callused fingers feeling it soft as silk as it pulled through his fingers. “I have nightmares too.” He whispered, after a moment had passed. One of her arms had fallen lazily over his side, her long fingers skimming the skin of his back absently, smoothing out the fabric of his tunic, the other arm tucked between their bodies.  
  
“I dream that he’ll come for me.” she whispered. Jon could hear the tremor in her voice that meant she was fighting back tears. It filled him with rage so hot that he wanted to spring up from the bed, take his sword, and ride hard for Winterfell so he could lop off Ramsay Bolton’s head right then and there. “Like the letter said.”  
  
“Shhh, sweet girl.” Jon cooed, brushing her hair back from her face so he could look upon her. Her Tully blue eyes were watering and when she blinked a tear ran down her cheek and fell across the corner of her upper lip. “I won’t let that happen.” Said he, the backs of his fingers brushing her cheek in a caress. She let her eyes fall closed as if lulled into relaxation by the action, her face unconsciously leaning against his hand. “I promise." said the former Lord Commander. "We will take back Winterfell, for once and for all, and when we are finished I will watch as you dance across his graze.” He was careful to avoid the name he knew made her flinch each time she heard it.

Her voice was slightly muffled by the furs he had pulled around them, its warmth thawing their frozen fingers and toes: “And you will stay?” she asked. Hopeful. Frightened. Suddenly seeming small as a bird in his arms. “In Winterfell?” she asked. "With me?"  
  
In a moment of pure daring he pressed his lips to her temple in a long, unobtrusive motion. At once Sansa's body seemed to melt completely in his arms, falling so completely into relaxation that for a moment Jon thought her taxed body had fallen suddenly into sleep. Jon's arm lay beneath her head, curled at the elbow so he could brush a few loose strands of hair from her face so it would not tickle her in her sleep. His eyes paused as they swept down her face, thinking how at peace she looked now. 

He blinked back the fatigue that raked at his eyes, so deep that it brought on a headache that made his eyes narrow against the pain. “I would stay with you as long as you would have me, Sansa.” Jon whispered, low enough so he would not wake her.  
  
It had been so many years that Sansa had ached to hear his voice, to hear him speak her name, to embrace him, to speak of Winterfell with someone who loved it as much as she. “Then you would stay forever.” she whispered. Out of the corner of his tired eyes he could see her looking up at him, the corners of her mouth quirked into a smile. “For I would have you forever.”  
  
Jon adjusted her in his arms, allowing his head to fall against hers, his cheek pressed near her ear, so he was certain that his whispered words were just for her, “So it shall be, Sansa.”


End file.
